


Toffee Eyes

by TheThirdTemptationOfParis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: "Established Relationship", Angst, M/M, Pool Scene Love Confession, TGG rewrite, Uncertainty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 20:16:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11192637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdTemptationOfParis/pseuds/TheThirdTemptationOfParis
Summary: It was enough to drive John crazy. Ever since that first night at Angelo’s, ever since Sherlock had blocked his advances, the man’s eyes followed him nearly everywhere. John tried to ignore it. Sherlock had made his position quite clear. But the damn toffee eyes were making it so damn difficult. So he took matters into his own hands.The strain and relief of a budding relationship during The Great Game.





	Toffee Eyes

It was enough to drive John crazy. Ever since that first night at Angelo’s, ever since Sherlock had blocked his advances, the man’s eyes followed him nearly everywhere. John tried to ignore it. Sherlock had made his position quite clear. But the damn toffee eyes were making it so damn difficult. So he took matters into his own hands. 

He woke up one morning to find Sherlock asleep at the kitchen table after a late turned early morning experiment. John busied himself making tea and toast for breakfast, hoping to rouse Sherlock, but the detective was dead to the world.

John sets down the two plates next to their tea and strategically runs a hand through Sherlock’s curly mop, gently waking him.The sniffling noises he makes pull at John’s heart, and he knows he would give anything to wake up next to that every morning, “Morning Sleeping Beauty,” he whispers while Sherlock blinks blearily up at him.

“John? What—?” he starts, taking in his surroundings.

“You fell asleep at the kitchen table again, you bloody idiot. Wake up and eat your breakfast.”

Sherlock complied, sitting up and taking a sip of his tea. He grimaces, looking at John, “This is yours,” He stuck it out in offering, trading with John.

John laughs quietly under his breath, “Sorry, wasn’t paying attention.” It’s a lie, of course, but John is all about strategy now. And by strategy, he means carefully running his foot up Sherlock’s calf.

Sherlock nearly chokes on the bite of toast in his mouth and John smiles. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him and can almost hear him trying to formulate a question. But John stops his teasing and stands, collecting their dishes to put in the sink, placing a kiss on Sherlock’s hair as he passes. Sherlock stiffened and looked at John, wide-eyed, slack-jawed, surprised. 

“John, what…? What are you doing?” he asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

“What do you mean? I’m washing the dishes. Thought that was obvious.”

He hears Sherlock sigh in exasperation, “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Don’t play dumb, John.”

“Why don’t you come over here and find out what I’m doing?” John said, turning off the water and turning around, leaning casually against the sink, smiling mischievously. He doesn’t expect it to work, but when Sherlock stands and moves across to him, something in him lights.

Sherlcok’s in his personal space and he’s on fire. And when Sherlock leans in, John’s self-control cracks. He has Sherlock’s face in his hands in seconds, and he’s kissing him. And Sherlock’s kissing him back and the world rights itself. Sherlock fits perfectly against him, his lips fit like puzzle pieces between his own and oh god he could die on this spot and be content.

Soon enough, John has his hands under Sherlock’s arse, turns them, and hoists Sherlock onto the counter. Sherlock pulls back for a moment, hums, and says, “Ever the soldier.”

“Hush, you,” John says, diving back for more kissing. Just as the heat between them begins to mount, there’s a knock on the door downstairs. Sherlock pulls back and groans, exasperated again.

“That would be my brother. Pretend as best you can that this didn’t happen. In fact, go in the loo. Pretend this is just another morning.”

John feels a pang for a moment, but realizes the importance of keeping something as sensitive as this from Mycroft. Sherlock hops off the counter and flops into his chair, violin in hand, and John shuts the door to the loo just as Mycroft enters the flat.

“Brother mine,” his increasingly posh voice seemed to echo through the walls despite the quiet manner of his speech. Sherlock’s groan was also audible through the walls and John laughed to himself, knowing it was already time to save him.

Walking out of the loo, John found Sherlock staring at his brother. He looks up and just barely suppresses a grin as he says, “Good morning, John.”

John stretches, pretending to have just woken up, “Morning. I heard this one when he came in,” he motioned to Mycroft who looked up, somewhat disgruntled at being called this one, “You okay?”

“Mm, yeah, fine,” he says, looking up at John before fixing Mycroft with a glare, “I can’t.”

“Can’t?” Mycroft throws back, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, Mycroft. Whatever you want, I can’t. The stuff I’ve got on is just too big,”

“Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance.” Mycroft has now fixed a rival glare on his brother and John couldn’t help but feel like he’s stepped in the middle of a spar. Or a measuring contest…

“How’s the diet?” Sherlock asks, flicking his fingers over his violin strings and John nearly chokes on a laugh.

“Fine.” Mycroft replies before looking up at John, “Maybe you can get through to him, John?”

And this time John does laugh before barking out a confused, “What?” while looking between the brothers.

Mycroft smirked, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, “I’m afraid my brother can be very intransigent,” and John almost opens his mouth to agree, but Sherlock steps in.

“If you’re so keen, why don’t you do it?”

“Legwork, brother mine,” Mycroft replies, and Sherlock rolls his eyes, “So John, Sherlock’s business seems to be booming since you and he became... pals.” The pause knocks John sideways and he knows they’ve been found out. Or at least Mycroft can connect dots, “What’s he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine.”

“I’m never bored.” And before John could blink, Mycroft is telling them (mostly him) about civil servant Andrew West who seemingly jumped onto the tracks at Battersea Station, and missing missile plans. He also manages to interject some quips to make Sherlock laugh. The conversation ended much the way it began.

“You’ve got to find those plans, Sherlock,” Mycroft said sternly, “Don’t make me order you.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Sherlock replied, raising his violin to shoulder.

Mycroft lowered himself to the level of Sherlock’s face and said, “Think it over,” and then he’s gone and Sherlock is playing a series of squealing notes.

“Alright, alright,” John said, walking over to him, placing his hands on his shoulders, “That’s enough of that. Gimme this before you break a string, and then you’ll really be upset.”

Sherlock relinquished the instrument without much fight, but he’s off and tearing with complaints about his brother, “I don’t understand why he has to be so goddamn infuriating, John. It’s not like I’ve ever done anything remotely that infuriating. I don’t ask him for very much, and—” he’s interrupted by the ringing of his phone, “What?”

John winced in sympathy for whoever was on the other end of the line, but soon found out it was Lestrade and was grateful he knew how to handle Sherlock. He turned to see Sherlock’s face light up at whatever Lestrade was saying and his heart warmed a bit.

“Excellent, we’ll be there,” Sherlock said, hanging up and turning to face John, “We have a case,” His smile was so wide as he grasped John’s face and kissed him. Yes, he could definitely get used to this.

***

The case was taxing. A bomber, a replica of the pink phone, puzzles, people strapped to bombs. They’d stayed on top of it, but only for a moment.The latest puzzle, a reality TV show host found dead was paired with an elderly blind woman who told them a little too much about the bomber and paid the price. 

Sherlock's eyes went blank when the story on the news ends. A whole block of flats blown up because a man couldn't have compassion for one single moment. John watched as he stood up and knew he had to intervene before he got too far in his head. Before Sherlock could cross the flat to his room, John had a grip on his wrist, "Hey, you," he whispered as if he were dealing with a spooked animal, "don't block me out. What's going on in there?"

Sherlock tried to get out of John's grip, but he kept it firm, "Let me go, John. I'm not in the mood for your pity or patronization." 

For a moment, John felt as if he'd been slapped in the face, but if Sherlock wanted to play that game, he knew exactly how to shut it down, "I'm not. And you know I'm not. You're scared and you're hurting, I can see it. Don't shut me out. Come here. Tell me what's going on." He loosened the grip he had on Sherlock's wrist and instead laced their fingers together, pulling him close. 

"I don't know what you want from me, John. I honestly don't." Sherlock said, just looking at their hands. 

"I want you to stop pushing me away. I want you to tell me what's going on in that beautiful head of yours. I want you to stay right here and tell me what you’re thinking," John said, placing a hand on Sherlock's hip. 

Sherlock's eyes pinched shut and he gripped the bridge of his nose with his free hand, "That's not what I mean, John. What do you want when this is over? Is this just for now? What is this? What are we?"

"We can talk about that when this case is over. Right now we have lives to save.”

“I don’t want to talk about it later, John, I want to talk about it now! I don’t like not knowing what we are. I don’t like not knowing when you’re going to leave.” Sherlock ripped his hand out of John’s and stalked a short distance away.

“So you don’t believe I could possibly be in this for the long haul?” John said, slightly hurt.

“I don’t know, John! You had no problem looking for women after you moved in!” Sherlock shouted back.

“That’s because you shut down my advances at Angelo’s! ‘Married to my work’ remember? WHat else was I supposed to think?”

“Then why did you start this?”

“Because your eyes followed me everywhere and I couldn’t stand being away from you! How could you doubt that?” John stood and tried to reach for Sherlock, only to have turn and walk farther away.

“Go, John,” he whispered, “I need to be alone with my thoughts right now, and I can’t have you distracting me. Go.”

John sighed and said, “When you want me to come back, just tell me.” He suppressed the ‘I love you’ caught behind his teeth and left the flat, only to caught and strapped in a bomb vest and told what he had to do.

***

The look on Sherlock's face when John exited the stall was shell shocked terror and it pulled at John's heart. His lover thinking he's the one that's been torturing them. He heard the voice on the other end of the earpiece laugh maniacally, "He looks so lost! Oh, this is rich! Remember, you say exactly what I say, Watson."

His heart skipped several beats as he reflexively repeated the, "Evening," spoken into his ear. Sherlock moves by micrometers, actually fearing John, and John wished he could launch across the space between them and pull him into his arms, reassure him, but the Semtex on his chest stops him, "This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

"John, what the hell...?"

"Bet you never saw this coming," John dutifully repeats, wanting to scream, wanting to run, wanting to leave this place with Sherlock in tow. 

"Now show him the bomb, Watson. Slowly. And say 'what would you like me to make him say next?'" John did as he was told, fearing the glee that was present in the other man's voice. He could see Sherlock's terror build at the sight of the bomb, so much the air sparked with it. 

Sherlock was looking everywhere but at John as he tried to gather all of his surroundings. The voice in his ear was sing-song as he spoke, "Gottle o geer, gottle o geer, gottle o geer." John's voice broke on the last words and he looked down, eyes closed. 

"Stop it." Sherlock spat, but it lacked conviction. He was scared. And this was the first time John had seen him scared on this case. 

"Nice touch, this. The pool. Where little Carl died." John swallowed, looking at Sherlock, measuring his anxiety, hoping he was thinking of something, "I stopped him. I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart." Laser sights from snipers lit up and danced over John's chest. He stiffened, his own anxiety peaking as Sherlock's eyes grew wider. 

"Who are you?" His voice boomed throughout the empty pool, and John heard the line cut off in his ear. He couldn't help but relax a bit at that. 

"I gave you my number," the same voice from the earpiece resonated throughout the building, "I thought you might call." It still had that same song-song quality and it set John's teeth on edge, "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket? Or are you just pleased to see me?"

Sherlock drew John's gun from his jacket and pointed it at the man, defiant, "Both." His voice was steady, his look defiant. He'd pushed away his anxiety, for now. For the sake John, most likely. 

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!" John stayed looking at Sherlock, not turning around to see the man who'd put him in this position again. Sherlock's own eyes kept flicking to John. Still nervous, then. His head tilted as he tried to take in the man before them, "Jim? Jim from the hospital?" Sherlock fixed his grip on the gun, holding it level with the man's head, "Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then I suppose that was rather the point."

Sherlock's eyes fixed on John’s chest as lasers from several snipers light across his chest. They both stiffened, fear grasping them, as Sherlock looks back to Moriarty, “Don’t be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don’t like getting my hands dirty,” John could hear him stop his slow, menacing walk and he closes his eyes, “I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. I’m a specialist, you see. Like you.”

Sherlock’s posture slackened a bit as John watched as it clicked in his head, “Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover’s nasty sister? Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?”

“Just so.”

“Consulting criminal. Brilliant.”

“Isn’t it?” The pride in his voice was tangible and made John shudder. _This_ was a psychopath. And John knew there was one outcome in this situation, “No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will.”

Sherlock cocks the pistol, still aiming squarely for Moriarty’s head, “I did.”

“You’ve come the closest. Now you’re in my way!” 

“Thank you.”

“Didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Yes you did.”

“Yeah, okay, I did! But the flirting’s over, Sherlock. Daddy’s had enough now!” The sing-song voice John had heard through the earpiece was back and he internally flinched, still looking at Sherlock, “I’ve shown you what I can do, cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off.”

John tried to keep Sherlock’s attention on him, but his eyes never stayed on him long, “Although I have loved this,” Moriarty started, “this little game of ours. Playing Jim from I.T. Playing gay. Did you like the little tough with the underwear?”

“People have died,” Sherlock replied and John could see the hurt from before return.

“That’s what people do!” Moriarty shouted, and John could hear the mania in his voice. He was so close to shaking. He knew that they wouldn’t get out of this alive.

“I will stop you,” Sherlock said, but it lacked conviction.

“No you won’t”

“You alright?” Sherlock asked, finally fixing his eyes on John, but John couldn’t answer him, remembering all the threats of the last hour or so.

“You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead,” but John only nodded, but he knew Sherlock really didn’t believe. 

Sherlock removed his one hand from the pistol and took the memory stick out of his pocket, “Take it.”

“Huh? Oh, that!” John felt Moriarty’s shoulder bump his as he walked by, “The missile plans,” John watched carefully as his fingers brushed Sherlock’s as he took the memory stick from him. It made his skin crawl to watch a madman touch his lover like that, “Boring! I could have got them anywhere,” and as he tosses the stick into the pool, John sees his opportunity. He races forward and wraps his arms around Moriarty’s neck and chest, holding him tight. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sherlock’s hand shake as he turns his aim as far away from John as possible.

“Sherlock, run!” But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He wouldn’t leave John alone, not even if his own life depended on it. 

“Good!” Moriarty laughs, “Very good!” His laughter assaults John’s ears, and he wishes, god how he wishes they weren’t in this situation.

“If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up.”

“Oh well isn’t he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets,” John’s rage doubles as him pulls the madman closer to the bomb strapped to his chest, “They’re so touchingly loyal. But, _oops!_ You’ve rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson,” John looked up to find a single sight laser on the middle of Sherlock’s forehead, and he stiffens, “Gotcha!”

John releases him and steps back, hands raised in midair as Moriarty straightens his suit, “Westwood,” he stands with his hands at his sides, glaring at Sherlock, whose aim hasn’t wavered, “D’you know what happens, if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock? To _you_?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, feigning nonchalance, “Oh let me guess, I get killed?”

“Kill you? Mm, no, don’t be obvious. I mean, I’m gonna kill you anyways, some day. I don’t wanna rush it, though. I’m saving it up for something _special_. No no no no no. If you don’t stop prying, I’ll _burn_ you. I will burn the _heart_ out of you.”

“I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one,” but he glances at John when he says it, longing and fear behind the mask.

“But we both know that’s not quite true,” and John knows in that moment that Jim knows, and that’s why this has all been happening to them, why John has a bomb strapped to his chest. But Jim shrugs, “Well, I better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat.”

Sherlock raised the gun and point directly at the center of Moriarty’s forehead, “What if I was to shoot you now? Right now?”

“Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. Because I’d be surprised, Sherlock, really I would. And just a teensy bit...disappointed. And of course you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.”

He starts walking away and Sherlock follows him with the gun, “Catch you later,”

“No you won’t!” The echo of the closing door resounds through the building as Sherlock’s eyes fix on John.

He launches forward and is on his knees in front of John, tearing at the zipper on the vest, “Sherlock. Sherlock, easy,” John said, trying to settle him, not knowing what would happen when it was off, but when Sherlock threw it across the floor, it didn’t explode, so he took that as a good sign.

Before John could blink, Sherlock is crowding him against the wall and kissing him frantically. John held onto his hips and pulled him closer as Sherlock’s tongue slipped between his lips, deepening the kiss, “Never again, John. Never again. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you, I’m sorry,” He stopped kissing and just placed his head on John’s shoulder, holding him tight to him.

“Alright, love, alright. I love you too. It’s alright. We’re alright,” John wound his hand in Sherlock’s hair, rubbing his back soothingly.

“He had a bomb strapped onto your chest, John. He would’ve killed you if we weren’t careful. I can’t lose you. I just can’t. Please don’t go because of this. Don’t leave, John. Please.”

John’s heart broke as he pulled his lover closer, “I’m not going anywhere, love. Promise. Let’s—” he was interrupted by the opening of the door to the pull. Sherlock had the pistol out and ready before John could blink and Moriarty was back.

“Sorry boys! I’m _so_ changeable! It is a weakness with me, but to be fair of myself, it is my only weakness. You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t. I would try to convince you, but...everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!” 

Sherlock looked to John, who nodded nodded slightly. He lowered the pistol to the bomb on the floor, “Probably my answer has crossed yours,” John looked up at Sherlock one last time and closed his eyes, waiting for the impending explosion.


End file.
